DIZMOMMY > June 2015


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June 29, 2015

Baby Fever Update - CURED!

After months and months of suffering from the ills of baby fever, I have finally been cured. I’m pregnant! Yay!!!! And though I’ve always wanted more than 1 child, I wasn’t exactly thrilled to experience pregnancy again. The sickness, the weight gain, the back pain, the birth itself, it’s all uncomfortable…though ultimately worth it. So here we go again, this time with a little girl instead of a little boy, and this time with a due date for the books: my birthday

Since having Dylan, I swore that if I were to get pregnant again, I’d make sure I took it all in and enjoyed it. Not only because I loathed pregnancy the first time around, but because I want to adopt children and a second pregnancy would mean I’ve committed to having three kids. And three kids? That’s enough for me. But now that I am pregnant with another baby (and for the last time), I just can’t figure out how to enjoy it! 

On the plus side, I GOT MY BABY GIRL! I’m no longer throwing up at the sight and smell of everything, and I’ve had two ultrasounds that have definitely helped me “get into” this pregnancy. But let’s be real- I’m sort of a mess. My clothes are already too tight, I’m constantly overheating, and generally, I’m a lot to deal with. My patience is at an all-time low and at around 5pm I can fall asleep anywhere. I simply don’t understand how women actually enjoy this process, but I'd like to. I want the damn baby already! 

So if I appear rather snippy with you, if I come off a little too strong, just know that my hormones are all over the place and it’s not you, it’s me. I’m that pregnant girl. Just ask my husband (sorry).

June 23, 2015

Trying [Hard] Not to Traumatize My Tot

Like a drone shadowing me, I hear his constant chatter and realize: the kid is trying to drive me mad. I’m sure of it. “Mommy, I read the books. Mommy, I read the books. Mommy, I read the books.” He repeats in six sets of three as both the book and the tot sit in my lap ready to go. My jaw tightens, and like a skilled ventriloquist, I clench my mouth closely as if merely opening it will result in my impatience to slip out in the form of a SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY! So instead, I pull it together and say, “Yes honey, we’re going to read the books.” 

This is a test. I tell myself. He’s testing me. The following day, we’re in the car when my seemingly angelic son is singing songs in the backseat, “I’m bringing home a baby bumble bee…” It feels like one of those special moments when a mother can really enjoy her child, so I seize the opportunity and join in the sing-a-long, only to be immediately scolded, “NO MOMMY! DON’T SING!” What. A. Brat. I want to set him straight but his sass is too misleading. Though he acts 15, he’s only 2. So instead of a backhand, I gift him the silent treatment and continue driving. 

Now we’re at the stop light, about to turn onto our street when suddenly I’m instructed, “GO THIS WAY! MOMMY, NO, NO, NO, GO THIS WAY!” I turn back and see bossy-pants pointing in the opposite direction. His voluntary navigation is cute, but that’s all it is. “We’re going home Dylan, and home is this way.” Then much like an earthquake, unpredictable and feeling longer than it lasts, I’m struck by Dylan’s vortex of high pitched, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! I WANT TO GO THIS WAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” The windows are practically shaking. However, I shrug, magnitude 3.5. I’ve survived bigger

And there’s at least 4 hours left in the day until bedtime, so I do my best to brace myself for the psychological warfare my toddler is bound to produce once we walk inside the house. Patience is a virtue. I repeat, despite not really giving a damn about moral righteousness. I contemplate my future, knowing Dylan has the upper hand. Though he gets under my skin, he’s a permanent resident of my heart. So for now, I’m screwed, with no choice but to clench my jaw and prevent myself from traumatizing this cunning, clever, outlandish, ridiculously sassy tot that knows no better. Stress builds character, I repeat to myself. Plus, one day, this toddler will be a teenager. And payback? She’s a fickle one. And in this house, we call her mom. 

June 18, 2015

Spoiling the Greatest Dad Ever (I Kind of Owe It To Him)

This shop has been compensated by Collective Bias, Inc. and its advertiser. All opinions are mine alone. #NauticaforDad #CollectiveBias

“I feel bad for your dad!” People have said over and over again throughout my life once they learn I’m one of five daughters. And my dad scoffs each time, “Are you kidding? I have my very own fan club!” And it’s true, I’m a big fan, maybe even president of said club. But the way my dad refuses to entertain any of the challenges related to being the lone man in a house full of 6 estrogen riddled women is pretty impressive. I mean, it’s not like we let him off easy. 

And personally, I was a handful. OKAY FINE. Two handfuls. I went from a straight A student who asked Santa for world peace for Christmas, to a rebel-rebel high schooler passing out drunk at 15 on the front lawn, insisting that I was “just tanning.” (Sorry dad.) He refused to let me spiral out of control. Like the time he dragged me to the office of my High School to talk to the attendance clerk about my multiple absences that I swore were (lied about being) a clerical error. Once the staff explained they were legit truancies, he had some words to express very loudly in front of the entire office, who all looked on shocked and pleased with his shakeup. 

I gave him every reason to be upset, to lock me down, to build resentment and treat me like a delinquent. And yet he still warmly and eagerly expressed his unconditional, unwavering love and admiration for me. He’d wake me up at 3am to watch a meteor shower, he’d tell me how proud he was to have me for a daughter, and he’d make time to take me on special trips to like breakfast in Malibu where we’d have big talks on life and what really matters.

My dad is my anchor. Five daughters and we never had to compete for his time. He has been there for each of us in childhood and adulthood and I can’t imagine being the stable, spiritual, being that I am today without his sans judgment guidance and constant support. I love my dad more than I could express in words.

And this Father’s day, Macy’s has a Nautica Men's Fragrance Gift Package that is irresistible for the anchor in your life.

It’s a four piece gift set for $65. If the products were sold individually, it’d total $128. So it’s a GREAT deal and smells SO GOOD. But the point is that dads are special and it’s nice to celebrate them. A fragrance set is something my dad wouldn’t think to purchase for himself because he’s always putting everyone else’s needs and desires before his own.

And for that reason, I’m spoiling the greatest dad ever.

Did I mention Nautica has a big fat giveaway taking place right now?

1 Grand Prize Winner will win a $4,000 Cruise Vacation Package and 5 Second Place Winners will win a Nautica Men's Fragrance Gift Package!!!!!!! You can enter below and if you'd like to keep up with all things Nautica, you can find them here:

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  Nautica for Dad

June 11, 2015

Small Town Dreamin'

I know nothing about small town living. It’s too easy to blend in with the masses when you live in California. And I don’t know if I’m just a product of my environment or generally a very private person, but I fit the stereotype and prefer to keep to myself. Just imagining all of my neighbors knowing details about my life that I’ve never personally shared with them irks me. And yet, a simple life in a small rural community sounds incredible…at least on paper. And in Lifetime movies. 

There’s a fiction book titled, “Home Is Where Your Boots Are” by Kalan Chapman Lloyd that’s all about a girl (Lilly) who leaves her small southern town, Brooks, Oklahoma behind, embarks on new life as a big shot attorney in Dallas, TX, only to return after having her heartbroken (cheating fiancĂ© alert). Again, I know nothing about small town living other than what I’ve read/watched, but I just don’t understand why some people are so adamant about breaking out of their hometowns when the place is so dang hospitable. 

Sure, everyone knowing everything about me might get annoying because people don’t let you forget who they think you are, but Lilly came back to a whole community of support filled with people that loved her, people that helped her, and people who knew who she really was. The book made me feel like I’m missing out on a special sort of social connection with people that you can only get when you’re born and raised in a small community. There’s the local church, the local diner, local gossip, southern living and southern charm. 

For example, I visit the same Starbucks every morning and each day I’m treated like a stranger who’s never been there before. That would never happen in Brooks, Oklahoma! I guess what I’m saying is, I just want a taste of this type of simpler way of living, even if it’s only through fiction. Though I should mention that though its fiction, parts of it (I don’t know which) are based on the author’s real life hometown experiences. This is only the first book of Lloyd’s series on Lilly, and I’m hoping the others are also semi-autobiographical because I need this picturesque life to be real. I want to believe that the town of Brooks really exists. 

I’m also hoping that the reason the second book is titled, “These Boots Are Made For Butt-Kickin’” is because Lilly is going to kick a non-local’s butt in the courtroom. Lol, I work at a lawfirm, what can I say?

June 9, 2015

My Son's Other Parents

I’ve never met my son’s other parents but I know they exist because Dylan constantly brings them up. “It’s time for bed, let’s get your pajamas on!” I announce to my resistant toddler, who begins insta-wincing in protest. Sometimes, I’m so excited that Dylan and I can communicate, that he’s reached new levels of understanding language and can anticipate what’s to come. And other times, it’s time for bed, and ain’t nobody have time for the headache that is toddler negotiations and clever forms of stalling. 

I lift his shirt over his head and pull it off. “I WANT MY MOMMY!” He screams inches away from my face as if I’m merely his captor. 
“Mommy is right here.” 

So I look around, just to make sure some ghost mom from a past life, who is just waiting to rescue the lad from my cold, evil step-mother hands isn’t watching me in grave disappointment with our sleep routine. Affirmed, coast is clear, no need to douse the place with holy water. 

We’re moments away from entering his bedroom and reading books when suddenly the front door opens. Dads home, fifteen more minutes of daytime unlocked. Dylan’s shut-eye induced depression vanishes and is replaced with bouncy, boisterous, boyhood. And I watch on as they play, pleased with their rollicks yet slightly annoyed that he’s getting all worked up before lights out, and then pleased again knowing that Dylan’s going to request that Dad put him to bed. “No longer my problem,” I laugh to myself. 

“Do you know what time it is?” My husband asks Dylan, a form of mental terrorism that is met with screeching despondency. Yup, he knows what time it is. My now sobbing child is pleading, begging for, and lamenting over wanting “his daddy.” 
“You have your daddy,” he assures our unreasonable precious baby lout. 
“NO! I WANT MY DADDY!” Dylan repeats, certain that his other set of parents will save him from the torment of these impostors. 

Whatever Dylan. These other parents are clearly the most patient bunch of people I’ve ever heard of. They probably gave him dessert even though he didn’t touch dinner, bought him toys even though he didn’t pick his room up, and they knew nothing of curfews, restrictions, and they had zero expectations. Each time I say “no,” each time I correct behavior, and every night before bed it’s the same thing, “I WANT MY MOMMY! I WANT MY DADDY!” The other ones, of course.

And even though I’ve never met them, these phantom parents have certainly made my life more difficult by spoiling the child with a taste of the good life. But the worst part? I'm super jealous. The spineless duo sounds amazing and I want to be their kid, too. My son prefers his other parents...and so do I.